Sandcastles
by PaperFrames
Summary: AU. Love, real love, is not easily shed.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: No, I have not abandoned my other stories (unless otherwise stated). I'm just having a _really hard time_ writing _anything_ right now, so I go where my creativity takes me.

* * *

 _{{We built sandcastles_

 _That washed away}}_

If your mother were still alive, she would've smacked your hands and berated you for un-lady-like conduct by now.

For the fourth time in ten minutes, you tug at the scratchy blush pink lace draped across your chest and yearn to itch at the lace that creates a somewhat deep V shape on your back. Had you known just how uncomfortable this dress was, you'd have reconsidered Alex's plea to fill in last minute for her sick cousin. Lucky for her, you two were roughly the same size. Unlucky for you, the dress consisted of charmeuse, lace, and just enough tulle to tick you off. Also, Alyssa, Alex's cousin, had been at least four inches taller than you (leave to Alex to have a family full of tall blonde Amazons). An already long dress lengthened to accompany two inch heels on a 6'2 woman meant you spending your night tripping on just enough fabric to send you stumbling into the odd wedding guest. Which also meant making your way to an open bar as soon as 'I-Dos' were exchanged to fight your embarrassment. God you'd give anything to slip out of this dress and into a pair of yoga pants on your couch. For now, you suppose, you'll settle for a glass of something stronger than Champagne. Not too much stronger, though, your flight leaves at 6am.

Saddling up to the bar, you stumble slightly as your stiletto (again; what was Alex thinking) comes down on bunched up tulle. You reach out to balance yourself against the countertop when a hand lands against the bare skin of your lower back. Chills slip down your spine at the unexpected though familiar palm pressed just above the dip in your back.

Ten years and you still remember the curves of his fingers, the splay of his hand, the texture (now more weathered) of his touch.

Elliot.

"You good there, 'Livia?"

' _Livia._

The smile that stretches across your lips is instantaneous.

"I'm good." you assure him softly and you drag your eyes up to meet his. Unlike the last time you saw him, the blue of his irises is tempered, calm. They're the color of the sea on a warm summer's day; inviting and comforting at the same time. You recount many of nights of your youth, snuggled against his chest, your fingers tracing the then soft and now hard lines around his mouth with your index finger. He'd grin at your touch and you'd immediately notice how his eyes would sparkle like the ocean beneath the sun.

"You look good." he compliments, fingers lingering a bit longer before he lets you go. His hands drop to his sides and he takes a small step back. He doesn't give you a chance to return his sentiments, his attention hones in on the bartender. "I'll take a Rum-n-Coke and for her…" he pauses, tilting his head in your direction.

"A glass of wine, Red." you supply.

The bartender nods and within seconds, a glass of wine, a bit more than half full, sits in front of you. Your fingers wrap around the stem of the glass and you bring it to your lips, downing most of it before Elliot's drink is even in hand.

He chuckles and your heart flutters at the sound, a sound you once lived to hear.

"This is a wedding, Liv; not a frat party. I'm sure Alex would frown on you getting wine wasted and reliving your senior year of college."

Images of drunken keg stands, loud music, and bad food combinations flash through your head and you outwardly cringe. Your embarrassment only serves to fuel Elliot's laughter.

"Remember that time you thought you were going to swim with dolphins?"

"Oh God, let's not go there." you insist knowing full well he's thinking of the night he'd come home to find you, dressed in a bra and his gym shorts, wearing a diving mask equipped with a snorkeler, insistent that he take you to the Hudson to go swimming with dolphins. Never mind the fact that it was thirty four degrees outside or that the Hudson wasn't exactly sanitary. The only thing that had managed to calm you down after he'd told you no was a big bowl of shrimp flavoured ramen with enough hot sauce on top to set a small village on fire.

"I wanted to kill Alex for letting you get that drunk," he continues, pivoting on his heels so that his back is against the bar top.

"I did that all on my own. No one ever let me do anything," you state defiantly.

Elliot scratches the stubble on his chin, "I think I know that better than anyone."

The tinge of melancholy in his tone doesn't go unnoticed, nor does the way his face falls, and your heart sinks slightly. You know what he's thinking about because you're thinking about it too. You think about it more than you'd like to admit. Time is supposed to heal everything, but this is one wound that will never heal.

 _You don't get to tell me what to do with my body, Elliot. No matter how many rings you put on my finger._

 _Olivia, please tell me you didn't chase a suspect into a dark alley without backup. Please tell me you didn't lose...Liv._

 _Elliot, I'm so sorry._

He clears his throat and you motion for the bartender to top off your glass, silently thankful that Alex's parents sprung for an open bar on this joyous occasion. If you are gonna be shoved into tulle and charmeuse, surrounded by nameless faces and an ex-husband, the drinks might as well flow. Eight a.m. flight be damned.

A pregnant silence slips between you two, and you fidget in place. Ten years' worth of unspoken words and almost twenty years of history hang between the two of you yet you have no idea what to say to him. Do you talk about the weather? Ask about his mother who no doubt hates you now? Maybe apologize or deflect; I'm sorry I broke your heart, but you broke mine first? God you wish divorce came with a 'How To Talk to Your Ex-Husband At Your Best Friend's Wedding' guide.

You smile at him, tight-lipped. A stray piece of hair slips from the side braid it's wrapped in and falls into your line of sight, and you duck your head.

Casual conversation, keep the topic light, memory lane minefield.

Lucky enough, you're saved by the proverbial bell. The new Mr. & Mrs. Cabot-Allen enter the banquet hall. Raucous applause, loud whistles and whoops ring through the air and you find yourself abandoning your wine glass and making a beeline for the bathroom to splash some cold water on your face.

/

Ten minutes later you re-emerge from the bathroom surprised to see Elliot, two champagne glasses in hand, waiting for you. You'd expected that he would've taken your disappearance as a relief, a reason to mingle with people he probably knows far better than he now knows you; people who don't remind him of shattered glass and broken promises.

Yet...

"You missed the toasts," he informs you, sipping from one of the champagne flutes while holding out the other towards you.

"Shame…." sarcasm rolling off your tongue as you wrap your fingers around the flute. You two find an empty-ish table off in the back. You glance up at the table where you're supposed to be seated, wondering if anyone knows you're gone. Aside from Alex's sister and mother, you suspect most of the wedding party only knows you as the backup bridesmaid; a friend of Alex's from college who ran away to Chicago years ago.

"Anyone ever tell you you're a shit bridesmaid?"

The champagne sliding down your throat threatens to bubble back up your esophagus as you laugh. For the second time that night, his hand lands on your lower back. This time he's leaning forward, patting you ever so slightly and telling you to breath.

He's right; you are a shit bridesmaid. In the twenty-nine hours since you've stepped into Alyssa's place, you've made several bad divorce jokes, off-put a few with your failsafe sense of crude humor, and severely shattered Alex's pristine image with more than a few of her family members. You suck at this.

As air finally returns to your lungs, you notice once again the feel of Elliot's fingers resting on the bare skin of your back. Gooseflesh pimples along your forearms and you take a deep breath to steady your heart beat. He casts a sideways glance at you, that cocky shit-eating grin tugging at his lips and you almost go weak at the knees.

He's aged; the lines of his face of more defined, his jaw more angled, there's less hair on his head than you last remember, but he hasn't lost one bit of his attractiveness. His boyish charm managed to easily slip into adult male swagger.

His fingers lingering a little longer before finally disappearing. "You remember the night after you graduated college?"

You nod. How could you forget? It'd ended with a ring on your finger and you screaming the lyrics to Paradise City out the passenger side of Elliot's patrol car until he locked the windows.

"Remember how Alex declared her independence by mooning my boss?" he asks and you're slightly disappointed that he isn't thinking of his marriage proposal thrice interrupted by randomness on his police scanner, or you literally throwing yourself into his arms.

"Yeah, I remember." Oh yes you do. You were certain that Elliot was going to have to arrest her for indecent exposure at that point.

"Well, that…" he points to a balding man in the corner dressed in a navy suit and nursing what appears to be a glass of soda. He's looks familiar, as if you've met him before. Perhaps he'd been your boss once a lifetime ago? You nod, Elliot continues. "Is him; they're now co-workers; as of six months ago, Alex is my ADA."

Hm, Alex never told you that. Not that you two made the habit of discussing your ex whenever either of you were able to carve out enough time to call the other.

You can't stop the laughter that falls from your lips, though, as you think about Alex's luck. "They remember?"

"Well, I never asked Cragen if he did or not, but Alex blushes around him at least twice a day, so I'm going to say she remembers. Think good ol' Jim up there knows?"

"I'm going to go with no since her mom didn't know about her sleeping with her Stats professor until I accidentally brought it up this morning."

Now it's Elliot's turn to laugh; he chuckles, hard, and you sip the last bit of your champagne. "How do you accidentally bring something like that up?" he questions and you shrug.

"I'm talented in deflection."

And just like that, conversation between you two starts to flow easily. He tells you a little about his job and you tell him a little about yours. You mainly exchange embarrassing stories of lost youth, though, finishing each other's memories. Move in dates and frat parties. Making out in empty lecture halls.. Sneaking into dorms and through bedroom windows. Him teaching you to spar and you accidentally blacking his eye. Oh the escapades (often drunken) of uninhibited youth that didn't know just how hard the world would roll you over.

Loud cheering breaks you two out of your memory induced haze and you turn in the direction of the sound. It looks as if the band is preparing to start up and the party is really about to kick off, which means, if you know the man standing next to you...

"I'm gonna find a place to sit so I don't embarrass myself out there," Elliot tells you and he's not getting away that easily. If you have to pretend to be a happy wedding guest, so does he.

"Oh no, Stabler, let's go get some liquid courage and get out there."

/

You don't usually dance, and you for damn sure don't listen to today's top 40, but four glasses of wine and one champagne flute later, you're dancing. And so is Elliot; stiff as ever.

You remember your own wedding; if you could even call it that. It'd consisted of you in a white sundress and Elliot in his uniform, down at Manhattan's City Hall on a hot July day. Your mother had called you stupid and foolish after finding out, giving your marriage a six month time table; she'd been off by almost four years.

But much like that July day almost fifteen years ago, after cajoling Elliot into letting loose on the dance floor, you almost regret it. It's almost cringe worthy to watch him miss the beat repeatedly, but you find it endearing. He thinks he's smooth.

You laugh as he grabs your hand and swings you around, almost sending you into a few other wedding guests. You vaguely think you know the song playing. God, when did you get old?

"Now I remember why I never asked you to dance," you tell mouth to him, though you don't know if he hears or understands you; he's too busy doing something with his feet that leave you quirking an eyebrow. "Can you dance like a human being and not a two legged cat with bad sight?" you ask and he shrugs his shoulder, spinning you again. You laugh, rolling your eyes while trying to shuffle to the beat. Over your shoulder, you spot Alex, and her new husband, holding onto each other despite the fast music.

The DJ must spot them, too, because the lights of the dance floor dim and the music slows significantly. All around you and Elliot, couples pair off. You sigh, throwing Elliot a cautious look. A look that signals your willingness to flee the dance floor with him. Flailing on the floor to the newest Shakira song differs greatly from the intimacy of a slow dance. You begin to retreat, easing backwards, somewhat more steady on your feet, when you hear it. Elliot must hear it too because his eyes almost immediately meet yours. The violins, that voice.

Etta James.

 _At last_

 _My love has come along,_

 _My lonely days are over,_

 _And life is like a song…_

You'd stolen the record from your mother as a little girl and listened to it over and over again until the needle on your record player broke. Somehow, years ago, you'd convinced Elliot to dance to it with you as your first dance as husband and wife.

 _Oh yeah,_

 _At last,_

 _The skies above are blue_

 _My heart was wrapped up in clover_

 _The night I looked at you._

"We should…" you start, but Elliot's hand wraps around your waist and he draws you against his body; he locks your left hand in his right, and pulls you close. Part of you is unnerved by the way you ease into his touch, as if there isn't ten years between the two of you. The other part of you, the part egged on by the red wine that slips through your veins, simply hooks your chin over his shoulder, presses your cheek against his, and breathes.

Elliot's lips touch your cheek, his breath is hot against your skin as he whispers in your ear, " _I found a thrill to press my check to._ "

For the fourth time that night, his open palm comes into contact with the bare skin of your back. Flashes of your honeymoon spent beneath the stars in upstate New York with nothing but a blanket and a pillow in an old truck bed flash through your mind.

In a haze of cruel happiness, you're dangerously close to forgetting that even lovers drown.

/

When the song stops, you politely excuse yourself and make your way off the dance floor. Your head is a bit hazy from the wine, and your heart won't stop pounding inside your chest. You didn't expect this. The way Elliot is acting with you. You'd expected derision, anger, and dismissal. That was if he'd even acknowledged your presence at all. You hadn't exactly expected you two to fall into step again, as if the last time you'd seen each other hadn't been on opposite sides of the same time as you signed divorce papers; irreconcilable differences; two words used to sum up a pain so intense that it tore you two apart.

Before you know what you're doing, you're gathering your things from your assigned seating and hightailing it, the best you can, out of the banquet hall, thankful that your room is only a hallway down and an elevator ride up. An elevator ride you'll apparently be sharing with none other than Elliot Stabler. He's perched in front of the double doors lift, leaning against the wall. He pushes off of it as soon as you come into his view.

"Calling it a night?" he asks nonchalantly.

You nod, hitting the up arrow. "Yeah, it's getting late. I've gotta get up early; head back to Chicago."

"Yeah, I should get going too." he tells you, glancing down at his watch. The elevator dings, signaling that the elevator's arrived. His eyes glance around the hallway and the elevator doors slide open. He gets on, arm extended to hold the doors open. "Come on."

"I thought you were going?" confused, you ask him.

"Yeah, but I'm making sure you get up to your room safely, first."

The eye roll is instantaneous. "I'm a grown woman, El-Elliot. I know my way back to my room. I don't need anyone to hold my hand."

"I never said you did; I'm just providing you with some entertainment on the way up."

"Elliot," the pique in you growing at his display of thinly veiled chivalry. You fold your arms over your chest, cocking an eyebrow in his direction. "Really?"

But there's something in his expression, something that crosses his face as he meets your eyes. It's a haunted look, a look of wary, that's only mirrored by his next words. "I know you can take care of yourself, Liv. You've been doing so your whole life, but I've seen too much shit to let you stumble out of here on your own close to midnight…"

You soften, suddenly, arms dropping to your sides as you remember what unit he works in, what type of detective he is, and your own chosen profession. His grand gesture of accompaniment isn't some chauvinistic display, but rather one of a man who's seen enough horrors for several lifetimes. Without a word, you get onto the elevator, punching the button for the fifth floor.

/

The elevator ride up is silent, so is the subsequent walk down to your room. In one hand you hold your wristlet, in the other your key card dangles from your fingers. Elliot walks beside you and every so often you cast sideways glances in his direction. He peers straight ahead, his chest rising and falling as you two somehow walk in perfect harmony. Your strides match his, even with the extra fabric draped over your legs.

Once you reach your door, room 523, you move to slide the key card into its slot when you step down on the tulle of your skirt. The sound of fabric ripping hits your ears and you grimace, remembering that the dress didn't exactly belong to you. Well, there's nothing you can do about it now. Sighing, you slide the key into its slot and watch as the light turns from red to green. The door falls open and you file in, flinging on the light. You glance down at the damage done to the skirt and roll your eyes. You need out of this dress, now.

Turning, you find Elliot leaning up against the doorjamb. The golden light of the hallway cast shadows beneath his bright blue eyes and there's a tightlipped smile on his face.

"Everything good inside? Everything how you left it?" he asks you, and you can't help but roll your eyes as he slips into concerned cop mode. Glancing around the room, you see your open suitcase, your discarded pajamas, and hotel robe strewn across a lounge chair.

"Pretty much." you tell him as you move to lean against the wall opposite the oversized bed. You set your purse and key card down and then immediately go to work on the cream colored heels that have been hidden from view all night. Once your bare feet hit the carpeted floor, you let out a long drawn out sigh of relief.

Elliot chuckles and you duck your head, the arrant hair that refused to stay tucked into the goddess braid that hung down your back all night falls into your eye line. Once again you push it back.

"I guess this is goodbye then…" Elliot says, pushing off the door frame. There's a slight hint of disappointment in his voice. "Unless you're staying in town for a while?"

"I'm not; my flight leaves at eight."

"Oh. 'm kay, Liv. I'll see you...when I see you, then. Take care of yourself."

You watch as his hand wraps around the door handle and he turns to leave. The door is just about closed when you find yourself calling out his name. For some reason, you're not ready to see him go just yet.

"El," the door creaks back open and he's staring at you with those bright blues. You can feel your knees weaken, your heart beat quicken. He's always been a gorgeous man. "Can you help me real quick?" you ask, an excuse for him to linger a little longer popping into your head.

"Uh...yeah, what is it?"

"The button, on this dress," you start, turning your back to him. You move your braid so he can see what you're talking about; a little blush pink button that holds the high collar of the dress together. It'd taken you forever to button right before the wedding, just one of the many reasons you'd wanted to strangle Alex with the dress. It wasn't that you didn't like her choice in bridesmaids dress just that...well, the style wasn't exactly your thing. The long tulle skirt, the lace of the high short sleeve bodice, the diamond cut out in the back...the pink color. "I can't...can you undo it for me?"

You hear the door shut and for a moment you think Elliot's left, then you hear his footsteps, you feel his fingertips brush against your skin before they settle on the button.

For the fifth time that night, his touch sets your skin on fire.

All at once, the day's events, the memories, and the nostalgia blur together and ignite a fire inside you. Sirens sound in your head. _Olivia, what are you doing? Olivia_ _ **don't**_ _! Think of_ _everything you have to lose._ Once the button is undone, you let the fabric slip limply from your shoulders so that it sags away from your body, and you turn in place best you can. Your eyes meet his as you let the dress slip down, further and further until you feel the conditioned air against your naked navel and bare thighs. Your stomach quivers as you stand in front of him, half naked save for some cleverly positioned pasties, a thong, and the dress pooled at your feet.

You feel him on you in seconds. His eyes searching your face as he wraps an arm around your waist and carries you away from the discarded garment. His mouth is hot, demanding, and skilled. He nips at your bottom lip, slides his tongue between your lips and you whimper into his mouth. You pull at the buttons of his vest, and the back of your knees come into contact with the bed. Surprised, you yelp as you lose your balance and fall backwards. Elliot falls with you, his oversized body landing on yours and you moan as you feel his hardness come into contact with your thigh.

 _Stop, Olivia. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop!_ Your mind beckons, but your body betrays you. Every inch of your skin screams _touch me._

And he does; lord, does he.

His hands brush against your breasts, pushing aside the flesh covered latex, his thumbs toy with your nipples, his hips settle between yours, and his lips nip at your collarbone. Were his hands always this adept? You throw your head back in ecstasy, grabbing at any part of him you can come into contact with, and frown when you grasp far too much fabric.

"I'm naked, and you're fully dressed," you murmur against his mouth as it crashes back down against yours. He chuckles into the kiss, the vibrations of his laughter tickling your skin.

His thick fingers travel down the length of your body and he grasps at the thin string of your thong. "Not completely…"

You laugh, reaching for the material best you can with him sandwiched against you, but Elliot stops you. He catches your hands pushes them against your chest.

"I'll get it." he tells you as he climbs to his feet. You take the loss of his weight as an opportunity to crawl back further on the bed until your feet are no longer dangling over the side, but rather digging into the duvet.

Your chest rises and falls, your nipples painfully hard against the cool night air, and with baited breath you watch him. He's teasing you as he undoes his cufflinks first and slips off his jacket. It hits the floor with a soft thud. Next he reaches for bow tie around his neck and you laugh when you see it's a snap on. He never could get his tie on his own.

The restlessness in you peeks and you move to climb to your knees to help him undress faster when he gently pushes you back down.

"I've got it." he reassures you and you flop back onto the bed, leaning on your elbows as you whisper a sensual invitation for him to slide into you. He grins. "In due time."

You almost rolls your eyes but instead you extend one of your long legs out and run it up his thigh, across the visible bulge in his pants. His eyes nearly pop out of his head and he seizes your foot.

"Patience…"

But you've never been good with taking your time. Especially when it came to feeling his body inside of yours.

Elliot lets go of your foot and you fall back onto your back, eyes glued to his hands as they undo the buttons of his dress shirt. Painstakingly slow he pulls at the buttons and untucks the tails only to reveal a tank top underneath.

"Really?" you growl and he laughs again, yanking off his shirt.

Just at the sight of his bare chest alone, you moan.

In ten years time, every inch of him has grown. His arms are bigger, his shoulders broader, and his muscles more defined. The path of hair that trails from his breast bone down to his pelvis is dark, and you really just want to run your mouth across his chest.

Finally, he starts in on his belt buckle and a fleeting thought of this is wrong, we shouldn't; think of all you have to lose, slips through your mind. But just as quickly as it came, it goes. Elliot slips out of his briefs (you wonder when he switched from boxers) and the weight of the bed dips as descends onto your waiting form. Immediately, you angle your hips towards his and once again, he stops you. He rises to his knees above you and hooks a finger through each side of yours underwear, and drags them down your legs. Unceremoniously, he tosses them to the floor and sandwiches himself in between your thighs.

Instantly, you remember his weight on you, the way his body pressed you into the bed and the stretch it took to accompany him. You need him inside you, you need him now. But he doesn't oblige; is he trying to kill you tonight? Instead, he slithers down your body placing open mouth kisses on each inch of exposed flesh as he goes. You're whimpering, head flitting from side to side as you feel him tongue close around your center. He teases you with his teeth first and then gently nips and pulls. Your hips buck off the bed and woah - this is a pleasant surprise. This is a definite improvement from the past. He takes you into his mouth and leaves you thrashing about, right on the verge of release when he lets you go. Just as quickly as he'd slithered down your body, he makes his way up. He positions himself at your entrance, but stops right before he enters you.

"Fucking tease." You mutter, eyes opening as you feel his hands wrap around each of your thighs.

"I, I don't have a condom. I didn't, I didn't really think about doing this…"

You shake your head, heart thumping, body aching, and need vibrating. "I don't either, but I'm on the pill and I'm clean if you are?"

He grins, nodding. "I am."

He says no more as he slides into you, your body immediately stretching to accommodate him. You let out a long drawn out sigh as his pelvis knocks against yours. Your nails finds the nape of his neck and one of his arms wraps around your waist while the other hands onto your thigh so tight, you figure you'll have a bruise tomorrow. He a small moment, he doesn't move, he just rests inside you, his hot breathe on your neck.

"Tell me what you need." Elliot whispers against your skin and a blush creeps up your throat. You're grateful he can't see it. It's been a long time since a man asked what you needed from him.

So you tell him & he gives. The short, hard strokes that leave the covers inching away from the corner of the bed and you raking your nails down his back. The long languid strokes that bring your hips off the bed and your heels digging into the backs of his thighs.

He takes you higher and higher until you feel him start to shake. The arm of his slung around your waist suddenly finds it's way between you two and he touches you, playing a pattern against your core that you'd have thought he'd have long forgotten. Next thing you know, you let go. Your orgasm rockets throughout your body and yours must trigger his because he grunts against you. His hips slam into your almost painfully hard and the nails of the hand holding up your thigh dig into your skin.

"Shit," you curse as he comes down on top of you, chest sweaty and heartbeat erratic. Your legs feel like jelly and you can't comprehend much but the feel of your combined fluids between your legs and the lazy, sex induced haze that fills your head.

For a woman that should have all of the regrets in the world right now, you have none. Not even when he pulls out of you, helps you slide underneath the disheveled blankets, slides in next to you, curls onto his side and wraps an arm around you waist, pulling you close. Not even when you relax into his embrace and your heavy eyes glimpse the long forgotten gold wedding band - **_your_** wedding band - resting on the nightstand.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Sorry.

* * *

 **-1993-**

If the room doesn't stop spinning, you just might die. Every inch of you hurts and you have to be up, walking the beat, in less than three hours. Next to you, Elliot stirs, the bed shifts and you find yourself clamoring to your feet and fleeing to the bathroom. You barely make it to the toilet before the contents of your stomach wrench their way up your esophagus.

"Death, come quick." you murmur, fingers clutching porcelain as tears stain your face. It would be just your luck to end up with the flu as winter draws to a close.

"Come on baby," Elliot's voice sounds and then you feel his fingers in your hair, pulling it away from your face. He sits down next to you best he can, drops his hands from your hair, and runs a warm palm up your spine. "This is the third time in two days you've thrown up, it's time to go to the doctors."

"I don't wanna." you gripe, relaxing into his touch and crawling into his lap. "They'll make me sit out at work, El. I'm already one of the only women in my unit. Imagine what they'd say if I let a cold get to me."

"Liv, you're clammy and you can't keep anything down. Now is not the time to worry about what a bunch of dumbasses are gonna say."

"Easy for you to say _Detective_ Stabler, you don't know what its like." you part murmur and part tease, dropping your forehead against his neck. He's been a detective for a total of two months and you were on your second year of patrol. Three more years and you'd be on the same path as your husband.

"You're right, I don't, but I also know that you're sick. If it gets worse, you'll have to sit out longer than a couple of days. Come on, let's get you dressed and to the 24-hour clinic in the ER."

Every inch of you wants to protest, to fight; to dig your heals in and stubbornly maintain that you are _not_ going to the emergency room, but another wave of nausea washes over you and chills slink down your spine. Aright; you give.

"Okay, fine. But when the doctor tells me i'm perfectly healthy, you owe me a peanut butter and caramel milkshake and loaded fries from Mikey's.

Elliot just smiles at you as he helps you to your feet. His finger rest in the dip of your lower back as he guides out of the bathroom and into your bedroom.

/

An hour later, you sit in a pod in the emergency room, the bright lights overhead too harsh on your eyes. Elliot had been in the process of helping you dress when he'd gotten a call to go into work. You'd encouraged him to go so that you could flee to the safety of your bed to sleep off whatever was ailing you, but he hadn't relented. Much to your dismay, he'd somehow managed to coerce you into dressing (though right now you really wish you would've listened to him and worn sweatpants; the button on your corduroys had fallen off somewhere along the way to the hospital; thank god for huge sweaters). Right after he'd signed you in and made certain a nurse had taken your vitals and you were all set for the doctor, he'd gone off to work at your behest.

Now you really wish he hadn't. After poking and prodding at you for twenty minutes, the clinic staff had disappeared, leaving you alone to stare at intricate diagrams of damage done by different diseases on the walls. Each drawing made you a little queasier than the next and all you want is your husband. If you close your eyes, you can almost imagine his fingers running through your shoulder length dark locks; rocking you to sleep. The image alone causes you to laugh; you'd never really been one to rely on others, Elliot is the exception.

A knock at the door nearly sends you jumping out of your skin. The door cracks open and in walks your doctor, Dr. Seville. She's half paying attention to you, half focused on your chart.

"Olivia, you're on birth control, right."

You nod slowly, wondering what that has to do with you having the flu. "Yeah, why?"

"Have you forgotten a couple of days' worth? Maybe a week?"

"Not that I can remember...or at least I don't think so?" you guess because you truly don't know. It was hard to keep up with your pills sometimes because of your constantly changing work schedule, but as far as you knew, you were up to date. Weren't you?

"You're pregnant."

 _What?_

"What?"

"There's a high level of HCG in your blood, it's the hormone produced during pregnancy. Which means you're pregnant. Think hard, do you remember missing any pills?"

The walls feel like they're closing in on you. Everything tilts and your heartbeat is the only thing you can hear. Pregnant. You're pregnant. Pregnant and you just started a new job. Pregnant and nowhere near ready enough to become a mother. Pregnant and not ready to give up your dreams or to put them on hold. You're pregnant…

"I - I - I don't know...I…" you stutter, suddenly wishing for the flu you'd been bemoaning all morning.

"Do you and your husband use condoms?"

"Why would we? He's my husband, we've been together since I was 18."

"Yes, Olivia, but judging from the look on your face, you weren't really ready to hear the word 'pregnant.' Birth control alone isn't 100% effective."

You suddenly feel like a child on the receiving end of a stern lecture about safe sex, but all you can think about is the fact that you're pregnant. There's a child inside of you. Suddenly your tight pants and ridiculous appetite all make sense. The pudge you'd been sporting lately…

You're pregnant.

"I'd like to do an ultrasound to see how far along we are so we know what our options are, is that okay? Then when can go from there; hopefully get you set up on some prenatals. Look at some vitals…"

Dr. Seville's voice fades off into the distance, her voice coming at you through a fog.

You're twenty-four years old. You're not ready to be someone's mother. You're barely taking care of yourself and your husband. Your husband. Elliot. You can imagine his face, almost see his glee and yet you can't feel the same. You're not ready. You've yet to sort through your childhood demons….

You're pregnant; and even though you know you're not alone, you feel more alone than ever.

 **-Present Day-**

An incessant, shrill ringing wakes you from your slumber. There's a sharp pounding between your eyes and everything is hazy. Groggily, you sit forward, extend your arm out and blindly feel for off button of the alarm clock. The room goes quiet as the clock's silenced, and you began to precariously peel yourself out of bed. The last thing you want to do is wake your bed mate. Your heels are on the ground, duvet clutched to your chest, hair strewn all about, when you feel it. Elliot's hand runs up your bare spine and you shiver at his touch.

"Come back to bed, 'Livia…" he murmurs. You glance over your shoulder to find him, bare chested, duvet pulled up to his waist, with one leg sticking out from underneath the covers. He's got his right forearm slung over his eyes and his left hand is on your lower back. You all but freeze, stomach clenching as you wait for him to say something else. Hail Marys run through your mind as you silently pray that he's still locked in slumber. Three rounds of sex (really, really good sex) at different intervals throughout the night should keep a man bordering forty asleep long enough for you to shower, shove your shit into your suitcase, and catch a cab right? Right?

His hand drop from your spine and he sucks in a deep breath, a grunt escaping from his throat. You breathe a sigh of relief; he's still asleep. You can't imagine what a conversation between you two right now would consist of. _Hey, the sex was great, I never stopped loving you, but funny thing...I'm married._

Married. God. What the hell were you thinking last night? The knot in your stomach tightens as you seize the gold band on the nightstand and slip it onto your finger. It feels foreign- odd- out of place. You chalk it up to the fact that you'd forgotten about it yesterday in your hurry to get to Alex's post shower instead of your guilty conscience, which had been heavily outweighed by your suddenly sixteen again hormones. But your conscience still rears its head. You can't look at the band, even having it on makes you feel like a traitor (but for some reason, you're not sure to who).

Shower. Pack. Cab. Home.

You make a beeline for the bathroom as quick as possible once you're a thousand percent certain Elliot is still asleep. The door clicks shut behind you and you grab a towel off the mounted rack, careful to avoid looking in the mirror as you go. You don't want to see what you already know; every inch of you is covered in Elliot. Your thighs are sticky, there's bruises on your hips from where he held you as you rode him. He'd started it. He'd woke you up by nudging your legs apart and rubbing against you. You'd finished it by climbing on top of him and riding him until your thighs burned. A burn that radiates through your legs now as you inch your way over to the shower and adjust the water.

Again, what the hell had you been thinking last night? But perhaps that's the problem; you hadn't been thinking. Not during the first orgasm nor the second. Definitely not the third, which he'd coaxed out of you so softly and gentle. Lazy lovemaking. Somehow throughout the night, you'd both ended up on your sides, facing one another, legs intertwined. He'd lifted your left thigh over his right hip and slid into you without issue. Slow, deliberate thrusts with him buried deep inside you, his chin resting in the groove of your neck, and his hot breaths against your skin, toppled you. You'd held onto him, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other holding onto his shoulder, as he kept moving inside you until you had nothing left. You still don't know if he came or not, all you're sure of is that you haven't felt intimacy like that in a while. You slip underneath the spray of the nozzle, hot water rolling down your back, as you brush your wet hair from your face.

Last night had been a mistake. Especially on your end. You'd become Yeats' mermaid; Elliot the lad, and you'd both drowned.

/

Moments later you emerge from the bathroom, wrapped in a fluffy white towel. Your wet hair hangs down your shoulders, as you tiptoe around the bed, grateful to see Elliot still locked in slumber. He's turned onto his side now and hugs the pillow you'd slept on to his chest. There's the ghost of a smile on his face that only serves to further fuel the fire beneath your feet. You don't know what last night meant to him, but rather than stay to find out, you'd rather get out of dodge before he comes to. You grab your now ripped dress off the floor and roll it into a ball. Best you can, you shove it into your suitcase while simultaneously pulling out a thin long sleeve black shirt, a pair of black yoga pants, and some undergarments.

You scurry back into the bathroom to dress. As you slide your pants up over your hips, you catch sight of your left hand. The gold band that you'd neglected to honor last night stares back at you accusingly. You'd forgotten Jonah, with his kind eyes and warm smile. The man that two years ago, you'd swore to love and cherish until death do you part. A day in the same space as Elliot rendered that promise null and void. You'd cheated on your current husband with your ex-husband. History had an interesting way of repeating itself.

Oh how you're ready to put this weekend to rest, to reseal the fault lines one night with Elliot had inevitably cracked back open. That man knew his way to your heart like no other. You shuffle out of the bathroom and bounce about the room, checking to see if you're all set to go. Shoes on, check. Clothes packed, check. You make one last pivot into the bathroom to check to see if you have everything when the hotel phone rings.

Shit. What time did Jonah say he'd call you?

The familiar gruff of Elliot's morning voice hits your ear as he huffs a sleep laden, "Stabler."

Your eyes go wide and your heart almost stops as you wait with baited breath for Elliot to say something else. Instead of his voice, though, you hear the receiver click against the console. Taking a deep breath in, you inch out of the bathroom to find Elliot sitting up, his back against the headboard.

"Wrong room," he mumbles, knuckles scraping across what little scruff resides on his chin, and then yawns. Your eyes dart to the clock next to the bed, 6:23. It hadn't been a wrong number. Your ever punctual often early husband called your room (seven minutes early), as promised.

"Oh…" you murmur as you cross the room and drop down to suspect your suitcase. A stray drop of water slips down your back, and you almost curse yourself for forgoing a good blow-dry in fear of waking Elliot; he's awake anyways.

The sound of the bed creaking catches your attention as your fingers fiddle with the zipper of your suitcase. Feet shuffle against the carpet, and before you know it, Elliot's lifting you to your feet. His hard body sandwiches you against the bed as he backs you up onto the mattress. He's still naked and his arousal is more than apparent against your thigh. His lips find your neck and he sucks on your pulse point.

"You trying to one-night stand me?" he growls against your lips and you find yourself melting, again. Every part of him is a welcome home, an escape. The way he touches you, you haven't been touched like this in a long time. You almost kiss him back, but as you move to stroke his cheek, your wedding band catches your attention.

 _Shit. Shit. Shit. Olivia, you cannot repeat last night,_ you repeat to yourself. It takes a great deal of effort, but somehow you manage to squirm out from beneath him, your heartbeat erratic, your breaths shallow.

Elliot stares at you with a raised eyebrow and then nods as if he understands what's going through your mind when you're not even certain yourself. "I get it, we never talked about what this means. Look, Liv, I'm - I've missed -"

The words hang unfinished in mid-air because the sound of your cell phone ringing cuts him off. You know exactly who is calling and exactly who's up, eagerly awaiting to talk to you.

"You gonna get that?" he asks you and you sigh resignedly; you're about to start WWIII.

You turn away from him, watching out of the corner of your right eye as he slips on his boxers, and then you flip your phone open.

"Hey."

"Good morning baby." Jonah's voice sounds into your ear. The cheeriness in his tone is a knife to the heart. _You just cheated on him._ "I called the hotel, but I must've given the front desk the wrong room number. I woke up some guy."

"Sorry. That was probably my mistake. I think I gave you the wrong room number."

"It's okay, I should've called your cell to begin with. How's it being back in New York, though? Everything going okay? The wedding go off without a hitch?"

You suck your bottom lip between your teeth, praying for a hole to open up in the floor beneath your feet and swollen you whole. "Uhm, the wedding was good and New York is...well it's New York. And yeah, everything's fine."

 _No. It's not. You_ _ **cheated**_ _on him._

"Good, good." Jonah tells you and you can almost see the smile on his face. You know he's standing in kitchen, dressed in his consult clothes, hospital badge clipped to his white coat, ready to head out for the day. He's probably had a cup of tea and a toasted wheat bagel. He's more than likely trimmed his salt and pepper beard that grows like weeds.

"Anyways, I miss you." he continues; inside your chest, your heart constricts. You bite down harder on your lip and pivot on your heels. Turning around, you see Elliot starring at you. His pants hang loose, unbuttoned on his hips. He's fastening his watch and looking at you with a raised brow - that detective eye.

"I - I miss you too, Jonah." you all but whisper, gaze falling to the floor. The red and gold paisley of the carpet catches your eyes and you trace circles on it with your booted toes. _Don't look at Elliot. Don't look at Elliot. Don't look at Elliot._

On the other end of the phone, you can hear glass clink against granite and you know Jonah's in the kitchen.

"Alright, I have to get going for the morning. I have the Baker consult and then I'll be at the airport to pick you up. Your flight gets in at what, ten?"

 _You cheated on him_.

"Yeah, about that time, which means I should be heading to the airport now, so I'll call you when I get there. How about that?" you suggest, finally dragging your eyes up from the ground. Elliot's staring at you now, arms folded over his chest, and his head tilted. There's an indiscernible expression on his face, but a fire building behind his eyes.

There's shuffling on the other side of the phone, the sound of hard shoes against linoleum, and your stomach drops.

 _Shit._

"Daddy!"

Charlotte.

 _Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._

"Livvie, wait, Char's here. She wants to talk to you."

Static and white noise cross sound as the phone changes hands and you're greeted by the most beautiful, yet heartbreaking sound there is; your daughter's voice.

"Mommy!" Charlotte yells into the receiver and you can see her clear as day. You can see her tiny fingers wrapped around the bulky black plastic phone. You can picture her thick and curly brown hair hanging in ringlets down her back because her dad can't brush her hair to save his life. He could sew a heart together, but brushing his five year old daughter's curls proved too much.

"Hey, baby!" you feign some of your excitement. You're happy to hear her voice, but right now, it's killing you. You just cheated on her father. "How's my girl this morning?"

A thud shakes you from the phone conversation and you look up to see Elliot, the anger in his eyes spreading across his face now. You don't know what he dropped and you're not willing to find out either.

"Mommy, are you almost done at the wedding? I miss you! Daddy tried to brush my hair and it hurt."

Your stomach drops and every nasty word ever said about you suddenly feels true. You let your body get the better of your head last night forgetting in the process about the little girl who counted on you. For the better part of three years, you'd been her mother. She counts you, loves you, calls you mommy, and you . . . you betrayed her.

"I'll be home shortly and as soon as my plane lands, you're the first person I want to see. Okay? We'll have a girl's night tonight. Just me and you."

"Yay! Love you!" Charlotte shouts and you hear the phone hit the ground. You know that in all of her excitement, the phone's become an afterthought to her. You listen as her little voice carries over the phone and then you hear Jonah again.

"We'll see you shortly, Livvie. Have a safe flight. Love you."

"You too…" the line goes silent as Jonah clicks over.

A beat passes before you snap your phone shut and you realize your eyes are closed. When you open them, you almost wish you didn't.

A now dressed Elliot is standing in front of you; nostrils flared, you swear you can see steam coming from them. He's heard everything; he knows.

"So you're married then?" his voice is level, cold.

You drop your gaze down to the ground and it takes everything in your to drag it back up.

"I am…" you hold your left hand up, the gold band bright against your skin.

"You weren't wearing it last night." His tone shifts from cold to accusatory and you know exactly what he's thinking about. The past always did come back to haunt you.

"No, I forgot it on the nightstand." you tell him truthfully; you had forgotten it. Way before you ever knew he was going to be a guest, you'd forgotten it. Alex had waited until the last minute to let you know your ex-husband would be attending the festivities. You hadn't purposefully set out to dupe him; it'd been an honest mistake your sixteen year old hormones only worsened.

"Like you forgot ours at work?"

If he'd just stabbed you in the heart, it would've hurt less. Suddenly you're ten years into the past and there's shattered glass in your hair and the Hudson in front of you.

This is the Elliot you'd be awaiting; this is the Elliot you'd expected last night. Not the sweet talking boy with bright blue eyes dressed as a Blues Brother that'd charmed you into taking a walk with him around Manhattan at two a.m. No, you'd expected the man scorned left with nothing but your abandoned wedding band and broken vows who'd put his fist through a driver's side window because of you.

Empty words is all you have to offer. "El, last night it just . . . just happened."

But he's not buying your words. He begins pacing back and forth. His chest heaving and his head shaking. "It just _happened_? It _just_ happened? I was out of the room when you called me back in here. I was gone. You asked me to come back, you gave me some bullshit excuse about a button. After what you did to me, after what happened . . . you let me do it to someone else?"

"I never slept with David."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Olivia. Really, we're worried about semantics right now? You're married! You have… you have a little girl? He gave you kids." Elliot's voice breaks and you see a couple of stray tears slip down his cheeks. "How long after...how old is she? How long have you been married?"

"Does it really matter other than the fact that I am?"

"JUST TELL ME, OLIVIA!" he shouts and you know his next reaction is going to be to put his fist through something and neither of you have money to pay for for hotel repairs.

"We've been together for almost four years. Married for two. Charlotte is from his first marriage. She's not mine biologically, but in every other way, I am her mother."

He stops pacing and looks at you, his eyes bright red. You have to choke back tears of your own as his hard gaze burns you to your core. You didn't want this. This isn't why you came here, to New York. Elliot hadn't even been (much) of an afterthought when you'd agreed to step into Alyssa's roll. This was a mistake. Everything about the last two days was.

"Elliot, I'm sorry."

"Go to hell, Olivia. Next time you're in town and have an itch you need scratched, go do like the rest of the piece of shit spouses out there; hire an escort. I'm done. If I never see you again, it will have been too soon. Have a good life in Chicago."

With that, he grabs his suit jacket off the floor and blows past you. The hotel room door rattles on its hinges as he slams it shut.

It takes everything in you not to cry as you're left alone with your demons, the smell of sex lingering in air.

You'd promise yourself ages ago that if you and Elliot Stabler ever crossed paths again, you would hold it together.

Oh the lies you told yourself in vain.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: All will be explained in due time. Also, two updates less than a week apart...don't get used to it._

* * *

 **-1993-**

Almost a week post your unplanned pregnancy announcement, you sit on the floor of your bathroom. Sixty dollars worth of pregnancy tests are scattered about in front of you along with a bottle of pre-natal vitamins and an ultrasound photo. For some reason, despite the photo and being told that you're almost five months along, you still felt the need to be a hundred percent certain you're pregnant. Your willingness to believe a plastic stick and an etch-a-sketch plus or minus instead of a licensed doctor is definitely indicative to your current state of mind.

Ever since Dr. Seville had shouted the words 'pregnant' at you, you've been in a haze. You'd come home to Elliot eagerly waiting to help you feel better. 'Stomach flu' you'd mumbled before calling off work, crawling into bed, and pulling the covers over your head. Elliot had brought you ginger ale, saltines and soup, all of which you'd opted against for a carton of moose tracks and a salami sandwich once he'd left for work the next morning. You know you have to tell him, you do; he's about to become someone's father; but first you have to figure out how to wrap your head around the fact that you're about to become someone's mother.

 _You're pregnant._

 _Pregnant._

And you're not really sure how to feel. First and foremost, it scares the shit out of you. The prospect of this tiny human-being being solely dependent on you for everything is terrifying. Your husband being dependent upon you is one thing, a baby is an entirely other.

Frankly, you're not ready. Not for any of it. Not the pregnancy, the onslaught of hormones, nor the birth, nor the 2AM feedings and diapers. Not when you have so much you want to get done, not when you have so much you need to sort through. From the career you've just started, to your feelings towards motherhood that stem from your own mother (who stopped speaking to you two years ago, after you'd said 'I do' to Elliot), you're just not ready.

Sighing, you fidget, the fluff of the lavender carpet itching your bare thighs as you yank on the hem of Elliot's t-shirt and sink against the bathtub.

Two minutes left to go before six plastic sticks confirm what you already know.

How the hell did this happen?

You think back to five months ago, to the month of November and chuckle to yourself derisively. You know exactly how; Elliot's promotion. You'd celebrated the only way you knew how from sun up to sun down. Somewhere amidst all the commotion and confusion, you'd forgotten your pills too.

And now here you are. Your fingers shake as you slowly begin to overturn test after test, praying that your doctor and all of her top-notch medical equipment are wrong. Six plus signs stare back at you, confirming what you already know; you're pregnant (and you just wasted sixty dollars). Tears brim your eye and it takes everything in you to stifle the sob that threatens to bubble up your throat.

What are you going to do?

 _Think, Olivia. Think. Twenty-four isn't too young to have a baby. It's not. Your mom had you had twenty-four. Your mom. Serena. Ha! Oh, that's a really great example there. How many times did she kick the shit out of you?_

The bathroom door swings open, banging against the wall and interrupting your thoughts. Elliot comes into view, a look of confusion plastered across his face.

You must've been in the bathroom longer than you'd originally thought. He wasn't scheduled to get off until 6 and you'd staggered in after running down to the corner bodega around 3.

"Liv…"

Bleary eyed, your bottom lip trembles as your reluctant gaze meets his.

"What's wrong, Liv? Liv...hey, baby…" he drops down to his knees and you hear a crunching sound. You both look to see what his wingtips landed on. One of your tests.

 _Your tests. Shit._

He picks it up, eyes moving from you to the object in hand.

This isn't how you wanted to tell him.

"Is this...is this...you're, you're pregnant?" the joy in his tone is like a knife to the heart. Try as you might, you cannot mimic his happiness. The tears slip down your cheeks and you wipe at your eyes.

 _You're a shitty mother already._

You don't respond, but you don't have to either. By the time you fix your lips to say the word, to confirm the happiness that's already spreading throughout his body, he's already found the ultrasound.

Next thing you know, he's lifting you off your feet and holding you tightly. He kisses your forehead, your cheeks, and lips before yanking your shirt up, bending down to kiss the tiny, almost unnoticeable pudge of your stomach.

You wish his enthusiasm was contagious, you wish you were half as excited, but you're not.

You feel like you're suffocating in the middle of the street for the entire world to see.

 **-Present Day-**

The first thing you do when you get off the plane is head for a bathroom. For once you're glad that Jonah had insisted on buying you a first class ticket instead of letting you buying your own coach seat. Less people near you meant less people to see through the stoic facade plastered to your face or the stray tears that pushed passed your eyelids. For two hours you were left alone with your thoughts and all you could think of was Elliot and the look in his eyes as he'd pushed past you.

 _After what you did to me, after what happened . . . you let me do that to someone else._

You never had any intention of sleeping with Elliot. Hell, you never had any intention of seeing him again. Actually, you'd never thought you'd step foot back in Manhattan. You truly had no reason to. Your mother died four years ago and she had been your only connection left outside of Alex to the island. Well, you technically had one more connection, but that one hurt to think about.

The bathroom's packed as you enter it. People line the walls waiting on a stall when all you want is a mirror. You make a beeline for an empty sink to study your reflection. It takes a moment, but somehow you manage to drag your eyes up. You look rough, to put it lightly. There are dark circles around your eyes and your hair is all over the place. It hadn't taken too well to the air of the cabin and once again you silently kick yourself for not drying it back at the hotel. You hadn't dried it for fear of waking Elliot, who had awakened anyways. That look in his eyes as he realized the gold band on your hand was more than just a decoration will haunt you forever.

You broke his heart. Again.

Cold water hits your face and you barely flinch, opting for the pins and needles sensation it creates against your skin instead of turning on the warm water. The sensation keeps you grounded in the present, it keeps the thoughts of last night and how wrong, yet how right it'd all felt. God, you've fucked everything to hell. Elliot. Jonah. Your sweet Jonah who's probably outside waiting for you while you're hiding in the bathroom with thoughts of another man to keep you company.

Gathering your things, you take a once over of your reflection to insure that the hickeys you know line your body are well below the collar of your shirt. You wouldn't be taking your clothes off in front of your husband any time soon. At least not until Elliot's fingerprints disappeared from your thighs and the feel of his mouth on your chest faded from memory. Once you're sure you have everything, you head out to your husband.

/

You spot Jonah's silver Lexus GX as you emerge from the sliding doors of the airport. Your heart drops to your knees and you have the strong urge to throw up. Hours ago you were rolling around in bed with Elliot. You were naked beneath the man who'd been your first and whom you'd at one time promised to be your last. And Jonah, sweet Jonah; the man you'd met in Millennial Park on a warm afternoon in July. Well you'd actually met his daughter first, when she'd teetered up to you, babbling incoherent two-year old gibberish and he'd frantically followed behind, calling her name. Before Jonah you hadn't really looked for love in Chicago; a few dates here and there, a couple of boyfriends that didn't last longer than six months a piece (if that). But Jonah, he'd stuck around. Somehow he, and Charlotte, found their way into your heart.

Jonah must spot you, too, because he gets out of the car and rushes over towards you. His kind eyes, a darker brown than yours, glisten against the bright Chicago sun. He's still dressed in his white lab coat and dress pants, which means after he drops you off at home, he'll be heading back to the hospital. Part of you is glad, it'll give you a moment to sort through your head, but the other part of you feels guilty for not wanting to spend time with your husband.

"There's my girl." He grins, his lips meet yours and you return his soft kiss.

 _Cheater, cheater, cheater._

He grabs your suitcase from your hand and you move to protest, to tell him that he really doesn't need to help you because your suitcase isn't that heavy, but he's already headed back to the car.

You meet him at the passenger door and roll your eyes as he insists on opening it for you. Jonah was about seventeen years your senior and still held onto the idea of chivalry - or, as he called it, courtesy for the one you love. You toss your purse into the car and get in, hoping to find Charlotte in the back seat, but no such luck. She's probably soaking up the sunrays of the playground at recess. Some days you couldn't believe the two year old who'd stumbled upon you in the park is going on six years old.

"So," Jonah says as you settle into your seat and buckle up. He reaches for your hand across the counsel and you fight the urge to curl your first against your thigh. He's such a sweet man, he's been so good to you for so long, and you...cheated on him. "Am I gonna ever get to see you in that dress? Is Alex sending us any photos? I bet you looked beautiful. Maybe you can pull it out and Char can play dress up in it?"

A staunch 'no' flies out of your mouth so fast that Jonah casts a sideways glance your way. You can't fathom putting that dress back on after how you'd taken it off let alone letting your daughter play in it. "I mean it's not really my dress. It belongs to Alyssa, Alex's cousin and I kinda ripped it."

Jonah laughs, shaking his head, before he puts the car into drive. He pulls out of his parking spot and heads home.

/

You often wonder what your mother would say if she could see you now. Olivia Benson-Anderson, the wife of a world-renowned cardiologist with a house bigger than you could've ever imagined (far too big for your taste, if you're being honest). Would she be happy that you're no longer a cop - or married to one for that matter? She'd argued with you for weeks about your decision to enter the academy and stopped speaking to you all together when you told her that you had, indeed, married Elliot. She'd hated Elliot; she'd called him arrogant, cocky, and self-righteous. Which had only served to push you further in his direction. Would she have liked Jonah, Elliot's proverbial opposite; the man with golden hands and an 83% surgical success rate that wouldn't brag to save his life?

Or would she bulk at how complacent you've become? At how predictable and safe your existence is? How nights in with your (sometimes boring) husband and your five year old daughter were your activity of choice? You didn't get out much anymore unless Jonah had an event he needed you to attend with him. You went to work at the youth center, volunteered at the rape crisis center, and came home. Wash, rinse, and repeat.

Your mother had always talked of you having more for you life. You wonder if this is the more she'd spoken of or if she'd had something else entirely in mind.

"Olivia?"

Huh?

You turn to see Jonah standing in the doorway of your bedroom. You blink hard, realizing that you've been staring at the wall for the last ten minutes with your still unpacked suitcase at your feet.

"You okay?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine. Just tired that's all." You lie, a tight lip smile crossing your face. "It was a long weekend."

Jonah nods understandingly. "I get it, Char and I were going crazy without you, but I'm glad you had a good time. You had a good time, right?" He asks with a slight raise of his brow.

Again you nod. Yeah, you had had a good time. _Too_ good of a time.

You bend down to unzip your suitcase and the first thing you come into contact with is that damn dress. The ripped tulle mocks you and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from screaming. Every moment of last night washes over you in waves: the walk up to your hotel room, the small talk, the witty banter, Elliot's fingertips on your thighs, his lips grazing every inch of your body. Every transgression you committed against your husband, every crime you committed against Elliot is emblazoned on that tulle.

That stupid tulle on that damn dress.

Blood floods your mouth and you realize, in an attempt to stifle your impulse to scream, you've broken skin. God you're losing it.

"You sure you're okay, Livvie?"

"I'm fine," you repeat, this time with more conviction. You're anything but fine. You're a cheater. A whore and a slut who just broke the heart of the man you'd once promised to love and cherish till death did you part. Again. Apparently once ten years ago hadn't been enough for you. Apparently vows didn't mean shit to you either because you'd broken yours to Jonah. You're a horrible person. "I'm just really tired. I think I need to take a nap."

Something in your tone must tell Jonah you're not really in the mood to talk because he casts a solemn nod in your direction and leaves you to your own devices.

You get to your feet and crawl into bed without even taking your shoes off. Your eyes slip shut, and though you're not completely tired, eventually you fall asleep.

/

An hour later you awake to a bouncing bed and a stream of giggles.

Charlotte.

"Mommy." she whispers as she climbs onto the bed. Her tiny hands come into contact with your cheeks and she places a kiss on your forehead.

You crack an eye open to find the sweetest of sights. Charlotte. Her big brown eyes are filled with joy and excitement as she stares back at you. Her spiral curls are frizzy and her already light brown skin is sun-kissed.

"Mommy!" she repeats once more, grinning at you as she settles into bed next to you, her legs thrown over your midsection, her head on your pillow. "You're back!"

"I am!" you laugh as you sit up and rest your back against the headboard. "And you're home from school! Did daddy get you out early or have I been sleeping that long?"

"Daddy came and got me. He said you were sad so I had to come make you feel better. You can't be sad Mama, remember we're gonna have a girl's night tonight?"

Your heart simultaneously breaks and mends as you listen to Charlotte's words. You're briefly reminded of your own childhood and telling your mother the exact same thing after one of her many vodka binges.

"I'm not sad, baby, just tired. But I do remember! It's just you and me all day!"

Charlotte's excitement gets the better of her and she jumps into your lap. She throws her thin arms around your neck and hugs you tightly. You return her enthusiasm, hand smoothing over the frizz of her waist length curls. You can't fathom how her mother had ever abandoned her.

"Can our day start now? Can we kick daddy out and do things now? I wanna watch Mulan!"

You're ready to answer her when you hear chuckling. You look up to find Jonah in the doorway again; he's wearing his consult coat and carries a black duffle in hand.

"You're gonna kick daddy out? I'm insulted!" he feigns hurt before dumping his bag on the ground and shuffling into the bedroom. He comes towards your side of the bed and you glance down, watching as he bypasses your dress of shame.

"No boys allowed!" Charlotte shouts before collapsing on the bed in a fit of giggles. You watch as Jonah takes that as his Q to tickle her until she's breathless. The scene warms your heart and you're suddenly reminded of how this could've been your life ages ago, with someone else.

"Okay, okay," you interrupt, separating father and daughter. "Enough of that before someone throws up or gets kicked where they don't want to be kicked." you warm and Jonah backs down. Charlotte sits up, brushing the wild locks of hair from her face.

"I hope you keep that no boys attitude forever," Jonah adds as he fixes his tie and runs a hand through his salt and pepper hair. You roll your eyes and Charlotte pulls a face of disgust. Seemingly satisfied with his daughter's response, Jonah turns his attention back to you.

"Alright, I've gotta head back to work. I've got a CABG at five and need to start prepping."

You nod your response only somewhat familiar with his doctor lingo. You weren't exactly certain what CABG meant but you knew it involved an open chest and Jonah's hands on a heart.

"So you two have fun tonight and I'll see you around midnight." He moves to kiss you and for some reason you tense. Elliot's face flashes across your mind and you fight to not pull back. You return his kiss best you can before he breaks it. He kisses Charlotte on the forehead and smiles as she crawls into your lap. "Love you."

"Love you too," you and Charlotte tell him in unison, although the words feel foreign on your tongue.

A content Jonah treads out of the room, and you listen as his car pulls out of the driveway.

Moments later you and Charlotte sit in complacent silence. She yanks on her dress shoes, tossing them to the floor and you run a hand through her hair. Her curls slip through your fingers as she turns in your arms. Those big brown eyes of hers meet yours and for a brief moment you feel as if she is peering directly into your soul, as if she knows everything about you. Even the parts you'd rather forget.

"Something wrong baby?" you ask, undoing the buttons on the suspender straps of her school uniform skirt to help her get more comfortable.

Confusion colors her countenance. "Who's Elliot?"

If you weren't sitting down, you're almost certain you would've passed out. Hearing Elliot's name fall from your daughter's mouth throws you for a loop; her father doesn't even know your ex-husband's name.

You swallow hard, suddenly feeling like last night's escapades are written all over your face. _Cheater. Cheater. Cheater._

"Where'd you hear that name at, Char?" you question warily.

"You were saying it in your sleep when I came in here. You kept saying 'Elliot, I'm sorry.' Who's Elliot and why are you sorry?"

 _Shit. Shit. Shit._

You don't even remember dreaming let alone mumbling your ex's name. Your subconscious is one hell of a sonofabitch and now you have to figure out how the hell to shut it up before your husband hears it.

"Just somebody I used to know," _and that I hurt_ "a long time ago. Now, how about we get our girls' day started?"

You don't give her time to respond, to ask any other questions that you know hang on her lips, you hop to your feet and lift her onto your hip, heading straight for the kitchen.

 **-1993-**

Elliot's been trying for three days now to pump some sort of excitement into you over your ever-expanding waist. His efforts have gone unappreciated on your end, however, his happiness non-transferrable. Aside from that occasional nod of the head or unintelligible garble, you've been a passive participant in his pregnancy fantasies. He's already started sorting through baby name books and looking at cribs. You've eaten your weight in pistachio ice cream and chili cheese fries.

Today, his latest attempt at getting you riled up and on the parent train is his purchase of an oversized t-shirt in a nauseating bright pink that read 'Mom-to-Be' in bright white letters. God you just wish he'd stop in the midst of all of his excitement and ask you what's wrong. You wish he'd do more than offer to buy you pregnancy books or ask to feel your stomach every other minute. And you definitely wish he'd stop demanding that you speak to your captain and change your beat route into paper pushing or at least first watch. On the job is the only place you seem to be able to clear your head lately, and out of all the changes you're about to go through, you're determined to keep that one stable.

Which is why you can't wait to break free for work tonight. Who would've thought that the prospect of sitting in a police cruiser with your partner, who took the cop role a little too seriously by shoving donuts in his mouth and knocking back ten cups of coffee, would be a safe haven for you? You need to get away from the baby talk, the constant bombarding of setting appointments and creating to-do lists.

Another hour and you'd be free of the dreaded B word until tomorrow around dinnertime. Third watch had somehow become your favorite shift the last few days; 7pm – 4am, nine hours of an escape. All you had to do was finish your dinner extra healthy dinner Elliot made you after work consisting of salmon, spinach, and brown rice. None of which sounded appetizing to you at the least. You wanted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a pickle.

You're in the middle of picking at your salmon with your fork when Elliot slides into the seat across from you.

"Take your vitamins?" he asks softly and something inside of you cracks.

Frustrated, you drop your fork and push away from the table. You know that this is just his excitement getting the better of him, and that the prospect of being a father is everything to him right now, but in truth, you just want to ring his neck. You get it, you know; you're pregnant. Everything you do now affects someone else. Your body is home to someone else, someone who's going to be solely reliant on you for food, shelter, love, and affection. You get it. You really do. What you wish he would take a second to get, to understand, and to see, however, is your ambivalence and hesitancy for what it is: fear. What if you can't do this? You don't know the first thing about raising a child - making a bottle, changing a diaper. You never really had a good example of a mother, either. Serena spent more time nursing a bottle of vodka than she spent nursing you. How could you be a decent mother when you didn't have a good example of one?

You thought Elliot knew you well enough to know this without you having to tell him, but it seems as if he doesn't. It seems as if he's too far-gone, too caught up in the baby to see _you_.

And you're slowly losing your patience.

"How about you take them for me?" the bite in your tone surprises even you.

You watch the smile on his face fade to confusion, his head tilting to the side. "What?"

"I said, how about you take them for me?" You can't stop the acid that drips from your words or the fire that burns your throat. You feel like a hormonal fifteen-year-old girl who just learned her favorite band was breaking up with all the petulance and derision in your voice, but you can't stop. "You take the cravings, the constant peeing, and the heartburn since this pregnancy is all you seem care about any more."

"Olivia…"

"Elliot."

"What's wrong?"

A surge of anger propels you forward. You grab your plate from the table and move to dump it in the sink. It hits the stainless steel with a clang and then you make your way into the living room. Maybe your mother had been right. Maybe getting married at twenty-two was too young.

You hear the scratching of metal against wood, followed by the sound of footsteps. Elliot sits down on the couch next to you, but you refuse to look his way.

"Baby, I'm not a mind reader. If something's wrong, please tell me…"

Internally, you scream. _If_ something's wrong? Your emotions aren't rocket science, yet somehow he couldn't figure it out, still?

"I'm fine." you hiss your go to excuse for all things that ailed you.

"You're not fine. What's wrong?"

You sigh, tilting your head upwards and taking in a deep breath. "I'm..." _Scared, terrified; please tell me it's going to be okay. Please tell me I can do this._ "I'm just overwhelmed right now, El. It's a lot to take in and you're so happy…" _It's suffocating me._

"Am I not supposed to be happy?" he asks you and you can hear the genuine confusion in his voice. Your anger suddenly feels irrational as he stares at you with those bright blue eyes, the dubiety in his eyes. Maybe it's you who needs to stop expecting him to be able to read your mind. Maybe you just need to tell him. He's one of the only people who wouldn't think you weak.

You swallow hard, gearing up to let your emotions bare. "No, I'm just, this whole thing came out of left field and -"

Just as you prepare to find a way to put your jumbled up feelings into words, Elliot cuts you off.

"Why are you acting like this is the worst thing in the world to happen? We always wanted children, now we're just gonna have them earlier than planned, that's all."

You could kill him. You really could.

You growl in frustration, getting to your feet, you begin to pace back and forth. The anger is back and palpable; you're not so sure if it's irrational any more, either. The cavalier tone of his voice pisses you off to no end. Of course it's easy for him to just change timetables, to suggest you put your professional goals and dreams on hold. It isn't his body that will stretch and change; it isn't Elliot who will be expected to drop their life, to become the sole support of another without second thought when they're not ready.

"Of course it's easy for you to say that. It's not you who'll have to rearrange their life at a drop of a dime."

"Now you know that's not true, Liv. Once you leave the force, I'll -"

 _Leave the force. What?_ It's more apparent now more than ever that you two clearly have two very different ideas on what this pregnancy means for you, especially regarding your career. It was one thing to go on maternity leave, it is an entirely other to leave the force all together.

"Excuse me, what?"

"Not permanently, but for now, it wouldn't make sense to be out there, on the beat pregnant. Even less when with a kid at home. Hell, I don't even want you to go tonight."

You explode, something between a scream and a shout tearing from your voice.

It's just all too much.

"Jesus Christ, Elliot! Are you really telling me that I've gotta give up everything I worked for the last few years to sit around the house, barefoot and pregnant, waiting for my doting husband to come home?"

"Don't twist my words like that, you know what I'm trying to say and it's not that!"

"Then just what the hell is it?"

"This isn't some strike against women's lib, Liv. I just want to make sure our kid's taken care of! It wouldn't make sense for me to put my job on hold to stay home; I'm a detective, you're a beat cop-"

"Oh for fuck's sake! Now I'm just a beat cop? My mother got a damn PhD and taught college classes while raising me alone! I think I could handle a baby and a badge."

"Great example there. Your father was a rapist and your mother was a falling down drunk. If she wasn't kicking the shit out of you, she was pretending you didn't exist."

You visibly recoil, your stomach dropping as Elliot inadvertently reminds you of one of the biggest reason why you're not ready to be a mother instead of causing you to consider stay-at-home mothering, your childhood demons and your own relationship with your mother.

"Go to hell, you self righteous sonofabitch." You yell as the anger in you quickly turns to sadness. These hormones and mood swings were getting harder and harder to deal with. According to your doctor, too, this is only the beginning.

Elliot works a hand over his face in frustration and perhaps regret. "Liv, I didn't…"

"Look, you don't get to tell me what to do with my body, Elliot. No matter how many rings you put on my finger."

"That's not what I'm doing. That's not what I'm trying to do. I'm-"

"I don't even want to be pregnant in the first place and you just keep making it worse." you wipe at your eyes, and run a hand through your hair in an attempt to calm down, to re-center yourself. Once you're certain no more tears are going to fall, you tear out of the living room and head for your bedroom to put on your uniform. Your shift starts in about thirty minutes and, intermittent nausea aside, it couldn't start soon enough.

/

Moments later you emerge from the bedroom, uniform snug against your body. You glance in Elliot's direction and he looks as if he wants to talk to you, but right now you couldn't care less. You're not up for another round of lost in translation.

You grab your purse and a bottle of water from the refrigerator and blow past him.

"Where are you going?" Elliot asks

As if the blue uniform isn't a dead giveaway.

With a roll of your eyes, you turn around; grab your keys off the bar that separates your kitchen from the living room, and storm your way to the front door.

"To work before you decide to chain me to our apartment."

"Olivia."

You slam the front door behind you as hard as you can.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I know i've been gone for a bit. Again. And people want updates of other things, but right now this is all I have to give.

Sorry.

Warning: Violence ahead.

* * *

 **-Present-**

The rest of the week passes by in monotonous waves intermittently broken up by moments of severe distress. One of the girls you mentor, Amelia, tries to kill herself in the bathroom. Another of your mentees had found Amelia after escaping to the bathroom to smoke a cigarette - something you'd asked her to do outside and now you're thankful she hadn't listened. If Amelia hadn't been found only moments post slicing her wrists, she would've died; bled out on the floor of a recreational center.

You'd known when Amelia had walked away from you after your session that she hadn't been okay. You wouldn't have been okay either if your mother's boyfriends had made their way into you bed at night. Your mother had been many things; a drunk, a liar, an abuser, but you'd never once worried about her dates forsaking her for you. Amelia hadn't been so lucky. And you'd tried, by God you tried everything you could think of to help her. The old mantras of it wasn't her fault, screaming, breaking things. . . but it'd all only served to further strengthen her resolve to leave this world.

Hopefully now, she'd receive undivided attention and help of a higher caliber. You had so many to save on the daily that sometimes you couldn't save them all. It was always the ones who fell through the cracks that hurt you the most.

"Olivia."

You blink hard, eyes refocusing on what's in front of you. It takes you a minute to realise that you've been staring at your computer screen for the last few minutes or so. The report you'd started to send to your boss about Amelia remains half finished.

Turning in your chair, you find Melinda, her normally curly brown hair straight and pulled back away from her face, staring at you. A M.D, Melinda comes in three times a week for free of charge to help the various runaways and assault victims best she can. She's the first friend you made in Chicago outside of Sergeant Platt, and she's a god-send. Not only had she taught you how to handle Charlotte's curls, but she'd become your confidant in times of need.

"You okay there?" Melinda asks as she slides into the chair across from you.

You chortle at her comment. She knows you're not okay - she'd been the one to help you apply pressure to Amelia's wrists and keep the other kids at the center calm while you waited for an ambulance.

"I'm fine," you lie and Melinda's right eyebrow upticks at your blatant fib.

"Olivia, how long have we known each other now?"

A noncommittal shrug of your shoulders is the only answer you give as you rise to your feet and stretch. She knows you far too well for your good. Almost as well as Alex.

"So you know that I know you're not fine then. You've been out of it all week. What's going on? Aside from Amelia." Aside from one of the girls you'd promise to help - to protect - falling through the cracks of your screwed up head? What about the fact that you'd cheated on your husband. A husband who, all week has sought out your affections and you've shied away from them all. A husband who'd asked you to take care of the most precious thing in his life, his daughter, and you'd responded with betrayal.

"Mel, I promise -"

"Bullshit," she states bluntly. "It's not just Amelia either. Ever since you got back from New York, you've looked like you're going to break down in tears any moment now. Get out of your head and talk to someone."

You fight the urge to roll your eyes like a petulant teenager being told what to do by a parent. Somewhere inside your head, you know Melinda's right; you have to get this out. It isn't just Amelia. It's Elliot, it's the hurt you feel when you look at Charlotte; it's the knowledge that you've broken something irreparable, again. But -

"I'm fine, Melinda." you lie a bit more forcefully this time.

She chortles and rolls her eyes. "You're a goddamn liar and we both know it."

"Look, if you came in here just to pick at me -"

"I came in here to check on you - to help your hard headed ass because that's what friends do - but I see it's just about useless. I've got kids I can be helping." Melinda climbs to her feet and heads to the door. You watch as she goes, sighing. Your eyes slip closed when you hear her pivot on her heels, your door shutting.

She comes back towards your desk and reaches inside her purse, she pulls out a tiny brown doll with ringlet curls wearing a blue dress.

"I bought this for Char, thought it looked like her." She sets the doll on the edge of your desk and your tears are almost instantaneous.

The slip down you cheeks, stinging your eyes as they mingle with your eyeliner and mascara. Every inch of you feels awful; you're a shit person. Your friend had cared more about the little girl you'd taken in - who'd taken you in - as your own than you did. Her big bright brown eyes flit across your min. She loves you unconditionally - she loves her family unconditionally - and you'd traded that for a night in bed with the ex-husband you'd destroyed and who in turn had destroyed you. The ex-husband you couldn't stop thinking about - dreaming about. Every inch of you ached for him. He knew you better than anyone. And then there was Jonah; sweet Jonah. The love he'd shown you, given you when all else had been lost…

Melinda's arms around you before you even understand what she's doing. Sometimes you have a hard time with affection - your mother had never shown you any so displays of it unnerved you - but other times, like right now, you find yourself melting into it. Melinda's arms are comforting around you. She soothes you, brush a hand over your disheveled hair and whispering in your ear that it'll all be okay.

The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them.

"I cheated on Jonah."

She pulls back from you, eyes wide in confusion. You duck your head low, drawing your bottom teeth between your lips and biting down hard. Jonah and Melinda had been acquaintances long before you'd ever stepped into the picture; you could only imagine what she was currently thinking about you right now.

"You what?"

"In New York...I slept with someone else."

Her arms uncoil from around you and she plops down on the edge of your desk. You wipe at your eyes, cheeks sticky with tears.

"Olivia."

"Don't - don't lecture me right now. I know I'm a horrible person. I know. And I can't even say I didn't mean to because I knew...I knew what I was doing. It's like I was standing outside of myself watching myself. The more part of me said no, the more. . . ." the tears swell up again and you wipe at your face; guilt like brick sitting on your stomach.

Melinda blinks hard a few times, forehead bunching together as she listens to you. "Okay, you're going to have to start at the beginning. How long have you been having an affair?"

"I'm not having an affair, I'd never do that to -" you stop because it's a lie. You already have done that to Jonah. "It's not an affair and I didn't get drunk and sleep with some random stranger at the wedding. I. . . I slept with my ex-husband."

Incredulity spreads across her face. "Your ex-husband. The same ex-husband I remember you telling me you haven't talked to in a decade. What were you - Jesus Christ, Olivia. Jonah's a good man."

Jonah's a good man.

 _Jonah's a good man._

You know. _You do._

"Elliot and I haven't seen each other since we signed our divorce papers. He didn't even come to my mom's funeral. Not that I expected differently with the way she treated him, and it just happened. We started talking about who we were when we were together and the love, it came back." _And now it won't go away._ "But Mel, please...please don't say anything to Jonah. I'm already kicking myself right now. I need sometime to figure out how I can tell him myself. I need to prepare myself for the worst, okay. I don't know what I'm going to do - I don't know what he's going to do. Counseling, divorce - take Charlotte. I-"

You don't expect it but she snaps at you, quick and harsh. "Don't even - don't you dare. I've known Jonah for at least eleven years now. He's a good man. That little girl is his world. He'd never take her from the only mother she knows."

The only mother she knows. A Liar and a cheat. You talked to her while you were still with Elliot - the smell of sex lingering in air. Tears build behind your eyes again. Melinda sighs, soft footfalls sound against the carpet of your office floor. She takes the seat opposite your desk and scrubs a hand over her face.

A beat.

"Are you in love with him?" Melinda asks and your mind goes straight to Jonah.

"Of course I do, he's my husband."

"I didn't mean Jonah, Olivia, I meant your ex. You said the love between you two came back. It had to be pretty strong love if even after ten years you could just fall into bed with him without a second thought. Are you still in love with him?"

 _Yes._

 _No._

For fuck's sake you don't know. You know you never stopped _loving_ him. Everything about Elliot was home, familiarity. His frame, his hold. The way he touched you. But you learned long ago that going backwards isn't an option - it couldn't be. Besides, Jonah, he gave you a second chance at love, at life.

"I don't know much of anything right now other than this is killing me. I didn't set out to sleep with Elliot. I didn't even know he was supposed to be there. I don't want to hurt Jonah because my hormones suddenly became nostalgic. Please, don't tell him. Let me."

"It's not my place to tell Jonah anything, Olivia. But you - you need to tell him. Before something else happens and it's too late. You used protection, right?"

A long drawn out sigh saunters from you lips and Melinda just shakes her head.

"I'm on the pill faithfully."

She just shakes her head once more, her brown eyes boring into you as the cell phone clipped to the inside of her belt loops goes off.

"That's the hospital, I should probably get down there." she gets to her feet. "And you should tell Jonah. He's going to be hurt, but you need to. You can't help others until you help yourself."

You just nod, watching as she goes. You know she's right.

/

That night when you get home you find Jonah's home before you for once. It's a little after eight he and Charlotte are snuggled in his oversized lazy boy, sleeping in the den. _Aristocats_ plays on low in the background and you smile as you traipse into your bedroom to change.

You strip yourself of your clothes and make your way over to your dresser to find some pajamas, choosing to forgo your shower for the morning. You bypass your normal tank top and pajama shorts and rummage through your oversized, long abandoned t-shirt collection, pausing when your fingers stop on a shirt you thought you'd thrown out ages ago. The familiar navy blue of the NYPD shirt with the numbers 6313 emblazoned on the right arm taunts you from its covert position at the bottom of your drawer. You thought you'd locked it away in the closet with your other belongings of your past life. You could've sworn you had.

A deep sadness swells in the pit of your stomach as you stare at the stupid shirt, part of you wanting desperately to slip it on over your naked body. The other part of you want to burn until you could sweep the ashes away. You rip a bright red Chicago Bulls t-shirt out of the drawer instead and hastily slip it on over your head. It falls just past mid-thigh and you quickly pull on a pair of boxers you'd stolen from Jonah ages ago to go with it. You slam your dresser drawer shut, a stray tear slipping down your cheek as you lean against solid oak. He - Elliot - had given you that shirt (well, you'd stolen it, really) the night he'd made detective, the night you'd made your . . . .

A surge of anger propels you forward as you pivot on your heels and whip the drawer open, seizing the shirt in question in hand. You cross the room over to your bedroom closet - the walk in closet that was to fancy, too large for your simple taste - and flip on the light. On the floor sits an old, somewhat dusty box you haven't touched in years. Slinging the shirt over your shoulder, you make your way to the box and open it. Inside sits photo albums, loose pictures, all of it from New York and the life you had there. Your patrol badge, your high school graduation...and your first wedding photos. The all stare back at you bunch the shirt up and shove it in the box as forcefully as you can, not carrying what you smash in the process. You're all set to close the box when a pair of newborn footies catch your eyes.

The sob that bubbles up your throat almost chokes you and you sit on the floor cursing yourself - God - whoever will listen as the pain you've kept at bay for so long threatens to swallow you whole.

A few beats pass followed by a long bout of silence as you try to regain your composure.

"Mommy…." Charlotte's distant voice sounds.

"Livvie, you home?" Jonah's soon follows suit.

Best you can, and for the second time that day, you wipe at your raw eyes and try to pull yourself together.

"Just putting on my pjs," you shout back, voice threatening to crack as you place the top back on the box that holds everything you simultaneously want to remember and forget. "Coming."

 **-1993-**

For once in the span of your year long partnership, you're the slob shoveling her face with donuts as your partner sits next to you in sipping coffee in silence.

You're so damn hungry and so angry - at yourself, at Elliot - that you're surprised steam isn't coming out of your ears by now. You wonder if he's still sitting on the couch with that ugly bright pink shirt in hand plotting out your life for you.

Gonzales, your partner, looks at you, a smirk on his lips.

"Yeah, when my wife was pregnant, she ate like that too." he chuckles, you almost choke.

Pregnant? He can see it on you? Already?

His large hand pants you on your back as you struggle to find airflow through donut dust.

"I'm not…" you sputter.

Gonzalés rolls his eyes. "Come on kid, don't play with me. I've got three kids. I know the signs. The yawning, the eating, the throwing up…" he trails off and you almost want to shrink into yourself. You'd only thrown up twice near him.

If he can tell so easily, you'll be riding a desk in the next couple of days.

"I'm surprised your husband let you out here in your condition though. I mean, you gotta be what, bout four - five months? You should be taking it easy…."

"And you should mind your own business," you bite back. "My husband doesn't _let_ me do anything." You toss the lone plain donut in the baker's box onto the dashboard. If one more man tells you what you should be doing with your body, you're doing to scream.

"Look sweet-"

"If you know what's good for you, you won't finish that sentence." you warn, eyes full of fire.

Gonzalés raises his hands in mock surrender and goes back to sipping on his coffee when your radio comes alive. It's dispatch.

"We've got a 273D on 49th & 9th all available units in the area please respond. Over."

You look up and the street sign above your head reads 47th and 9th. Well, guess your night's not going to be as boring as you'd originally thought. Though the prospects of splitting apart a fighting husband and wife knowing full well the husband wouldn't get more than a slap on the wrist and a night in the drunk tank unless his wife was beat to hell, didn't exact seem appealing to you. Boy did this job have a long way to go when it came to women.

"Alright, Benson, you take the wife- girlfriend - whatever, I got the husband."

Your patrol car roars to life as you two set out.

/

When you come up on the scene you're the first to get out. Gonzales unsurprisingly enough moves slow. You know his attitude when it comes to cases like this - he always found a way to side with the husband. You make your way up to the door when it swings open on you. A white man in probably his early to mid thirties dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and dark grey sweatpants moves to push past you, but stops when he sees you.

"Oh come on, the bitch called the cops? All I did was shove her away from me - she got in my face first…"

You roll your eyes knowing full well that he's not telling you the full story, the bruised knuckles on both his hands say differently.

"Come on man, don't make this any more difficult than it has to be," Gonzales says and you fight the urge to shoot him a dirty look for his niceties towards the criminal in front of you.

"Alright sir," you start, "we're gonna need you to put your hands on your head and -"

You don't get to finish your sentence because he pushes past you, shoulder slamming into yours as he goes. You spin on your heels and almost hit the ground but catch yourself just in time.

"Son of a bitch!" you growl, a fire igniting in the pit of your stomach that for once isn't because you're about to throw up. Before you know it, you're running - chasing after the bastard. Gonzales shouts something unintelligible from behind you and you know you can outrun him any day of the week.

Over broken glass and through a narrow alley way you chase your suspect - you're not even sure if your partner's running with you any more. All you know is that you're sick of people's shit today and when you catch this guy, you just might hurt him.

But you never get a chance.

You're running straight ahead, darkness ripping around you when you feel it, a sharp pain to your midsection.

You're knocked backwards off your feet, and suddenly the ground is beneath you, your face skidding against the cement. Then it hits you again. It's something hard, something metal. It comes down again and again; against your ribs, your thighs, and your stomach. You feel a crack, something's burning. Pain rips through your body. Every inch of you is shaking. The sound of metal clanging against concrete followed by retreating footsteps somehow barrels through the pain and you manage to open your eyes long enough to see the suspect you'd been chasing running away, a crowbar sits maybe a foot from you.

"BENSON!" Gonzales shouts. You shake. Everything hurts. "BENSON!"

The pain intensifies in your abdomen. You're cramping - hard. Somehow you manage to roll into a ball on your side when you feel it, the wetness between your thighs. It's sticky and warm, playing in stark contrast to the coolness of the concrete.

Blood.

Your baby.

You'd forgotten about your baby.

God no.

"Ahhhhhh." A cramp tears up your back and your eyes slam shut. Everything hurts. Everything. "My baby..."


End file.
